


The Library Was His Favorite Place

by hpdm4ever, MessiFangirl (hpdm4ever)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Library, Books, Chairs, Cressi, Day One, FC Barcelona, First Meetings, Gen, Genre Prompt: Legends, Image Prompt: Library, Juventus Turin, Song Prompt: The Lightning Strike, Students, Studying, Word Prompt: Tomorrow, cressiweek2k18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 11:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16158389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/hpdm4ever, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/MessiFangirl
Summary: The library was his favorite place.To be more accurate, it wasn't until this year--his final year before graduating. Before this year, he would have shrugged when asked. Would have been the football pitch, probably. That's where he spent a lot of his time, where he felt a lot of his happiness. If anyone else had to guess, that's what they would have guessed. And they wouldn't have been off by much.A library wasn't smelling of freshly cut grass, wet with dew and bright with sunshine. It couldn't give him that joy of a ball at his feet, and certainly couldn't replicate the exhilaration he felt when he struck it just right. That ripple in the net... That was nearly indescribable. There was no denying that he loved to play, loved what he did day in and day out. If he didn't love it, he wouldn't continue to do it.But still. Despite his love for the game, once he found the library, the pitch was only his second favorite.The library was his favorite place.





	The Library Was His Favorite Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yulin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yulin/gifts), [FangirlOfMessi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangirlOfMessi/gifts).



> Today I said, huh I should try to write something for Cressiweek since I loved the picture of the library in the prompt. So, then this happened. 
> 
> FangirlofMessi: I owed you a gift :)  
> yulin: you're the best xo

The library was his favorite place.

To be more accurate, it wasn't until this year--his final year before graduating. Before this year, he would have shrugged when asked. Would have been the football pitch, probably. That's where he spent a lot of his time, where he felt a lot of his happiness. If anyone else had to guess, that's what they would have guessed. And they wouldn't have been off by much.

A library wasn't smelling of freshly cut grass, wet with dew and bright with sunshine. It couldn't give him that joy of a ball at his feet, and certainly couldn't replicate the exhilaration he felt when he struck it just right. That ripple in the net... That was nearly indescribable. There was no denying that he loved to play, loved what he did day in and day out. If he didn't love it, he wouldn't continue to do it.

But still. Despite his love for the game, once he found the library, the pitch was only his second favorite.

The library was his favorite place.

He shouldn't have found solace in the dusty pages of Verne and Defoe, shouldn't have wanted to delve into the minds of historians with Herodotus or Gibbon, and most of all shouldn't have wanted to lose himself analyzing countless lines of Shakespeare's iambic pentameter. But he did, and in the library, they were all in one place--at his fingertips. He would sit in a comfy armchair in the corner--away from the entrance and the endless parade of students coming and going.

And he would read.

And read.

And read.

If he'd wanted to be bothered--to be seen--he would have sat at the great tables in the main room. It would have been easy. The long wooden tables gleamed in the bright light there, wiped down by the janitors overnight to keep them clean. The red chairs were comfortable and plush, the school knowing the necessity of providing their students with seats that could be used for hours on end. Plenty of people sat there when they needed to kill time. Books stacked perilously next to them, they'd study or focus on writing their term papers, the scratch of their pens or the tapping on their keyboards somehow seeming much quieter than they'd have been in a classroom. Others would sit in small groups, discussing homework or moaning over assignments. They'd wave or say hello to whoever was walking in at that moment, eagerly wanting to be distracted from whatever it was that they should be doing.

But he didn't want to be distracted.

Didn't want to hear the chatter of his classmates as they complained about some syllabus for Geography or explication for English, or the length of their upcoming oral presentation in Public Speaking.

He just wanted...

Well, he wanted to lose himself.

He'd found the chair by accident.

Hell, he'd only been in the library because of the weather. He'd been thinking through possible thesis statements for his first paper as he sat crosslegged underneath the large maple tree he'd come to consider as his spot. But when the sprinkling raindrops started threatened to turn into a downpour, and he'd heard the quiet rumble of thunder, he'd shoved his papers into his bag and dashed into the nearest building. And it just so happened to be the library. A ton of others had followed in his footsteps, searching for shelter, and for a minute he thought that he'd be able to get through without notice. But when he'd scanned his ID, the librarian raised her eyebrows as she noted his name. She'd said something about books and athletes as he'd walked away, but he'd not responded.

It was meant to get a rise out of him, probably.

That was the thing, really.

He played football. He played football and he was damn good at it, plenty of people said that. There was no denying his talent as he scored goal after goal, pushed his team to the championship time after time. The trophies were polished and lined up in the Student Center for everyone to see, displayed with pride by the school year after year. The fans, the coaches, the scouts couldn't believe their eyes. He was going to be great, they said, going to be a fucking legend. He already was one here, and soon he'd be one for all time. And because of that, well, nobody really expected him to excel anywhere else. School was just until he could do this full time--until he could become a household name and play football for a living. Make the big money.

And everybody just assumed he was an idiot.

Or, maybe they didn't think he was an idiot, but they certainly didn't try to have conversations about literature with him. Didn't ask him about Wilde or Swift or Joyce. They didn't ask him for help when they were writing their papers on Poe's unreliable narrators or probe his brain for his thoughts on symbolism in Eliot, and didn't ever really partner with him expecting him to do his share of their projects. They acted surprised whenever he mentioned Dickinson's personification or tried to participate in the class discussion about Woolf's feminism.

And so by a certain point, he'd had enough.

Enough of the nervous laughter he'd get when he asked about comparisons between Hurston and Ellison. Enough of the rolled eyes and whispers about Google he'd get when he tried to learn about the ramifications of Thoreau and Emerson's friendship.

He stopped trying, stopped attempting to do well in the classroom. On his own, he did fine. He did his work quietly, silently finishing paper after paper and project after project successfully and with gentle praise from the professors who actually cared. Some of them didn't and just thought he was skating by with tutoring. Many of the athletes needed tutoring, and he didn't begrudge them that--a lot of them truly needed the help and (despite what anyone thought) wanted the help. It was just that it wasn't necessary for him. Some of the professors knew he didn't get tutored and so naturally thought he cheated--either giving him warnings or flat out telling him they were looking the other way so that he didn't get kicked out and lose his scholarship.

It made him angry at first, but then he realized it was better this way. Let them think what they want, and he'd continue to do his own thing until he was out of here.

He'd avoided the library for almost the entirety of his academic career. Everything was online now. There was no point, really. If needed some scholarly journal for one of his papers, he just used the online databases and was able to access pretty much everything. He did like to read, in his spare time, of course--but he had a pretty sizable collection of books in his dorm room for that. He loved the feeling of books in his hands, and even if nobody knew it, he always had one in his bag.

His roommate thought they were for class, and obviously, some of the anthologies were, not that the kid ever really thumbed through the shelf full of Whitman and Keats, Chaucer and Ovid. (If he'd had, he might ask why Wharton was mixed in with Salinger, or why Hinton was sandwiched with Dumas and Lewis. But most of all, he would have seen that they were all falling apart after having been read so many times).

And that wasn't counting the ebooks he owned and borrowed. He'd never tried to keep track of how many books he'd read, but by now there was no way it would ever be possible to catalog them. It usually only took him a few minutes of reading to remember whether or not he'd read a book before--he was blessed with the gift of speed reading and a very high level of reading comprehension--and if he was in the mood for something new he'd just click on the next available title.

But to *physically* go to the library just meant that he was risking someone seeing him and knowing him. He was risking that they'd make some comment like the librarian had just now.

It rankled, simmered in his blood as he walked away from the librarian in the main room as fast as possible. That athletes couldn't possibly like to read... It was infuriating. He went downstairs to get away from everyone so that he didn't explode. His feet took him into the quieter rooms off of the main level, the ones that tended to have only the most studious students. And then he went further than that, zigzagging through the shelves, drawing his fingers across the spines as one would strings on a harp. The sound was calming, for all that it was a quiet and constant thwap, thwap, thwap.

He walked until he came to the end of a row, and then he turned down another to begin anew. His fingers continued to trail over the books letting the musty smell of old paper and ink surround and calm him.

And then he found the chair.

It was in the corner--the very furthest corner from the door of the last room on this level.

It wasn't a sturdy backed chair with a velvet red cushion like the chairs upstairs at the long tables. There was no brilliant shine on wooden arms, or delicate stitching around the edge of the cushion.

No, this chair had seen better days.

Chair might even be a generous term.

It was a lumpy looking thing, a dark blue that might have been vibrant once and instead had faded with age. It didn't look that well built at all, but that might have been because it was an armchair as opposed to one that belonged at a table or desk. Some of the stuffing had to be missing, because it was tilted slightly to the left with one arm sunken and looking rather sad. There were rips and tears here and there, a few of them sewn up rather poorly and with red thread instead of blue--giving it an altogether ugly look.

And yet.

He sat down in it.

It held him.

It didn't drop him, though he was careful not to lean too much against the under-stuffed arm. After a minute he pulled his legs up beneath him, sitting cross-legged like he'd been underneath the tree outside. The chair molded to his body somehow, squeezing him in the most perfect way, and he suddenly realized that he liked this chair. He took a deep breath and relaxed, looking out across the room.

It was nearly too dark to read in, really, the dim lighting nowhere close to the bright lights that had been on the upper level. The bulbs in the ceiling were yellowed and old, probably nearing the time that they needed to be replaced. A few near the end of the aisle were out entirely. And the books here were old too, tightly filling shelves without any more room for new titles. The bindings were cracked across the leather, and those with cloth were gently stained from dirty fingers and time. These were the near-forgotten books--ones that would probably end up in storage or at some used-book sale while newer and more up to date books got moved into their place.

But for now, they were here.

It was quiet. He was alone. Off in the distance, if he strained, he could maybe hear some noise from the other levels. Not the turning of pages or the scratching of pens, but voices carrying in the stairwell or from the main entrance. But it was far off, not enough to bother him.

He liked it.

He liked this place.

He liked this chair and this corner and these books.

And so he sat there, quietly reading, prying out one book after another, trying to decide what he wanted to read at that very moment. And when he found it, that's where he stayed, right in that corner, on that lumpy blue chair, until the announcement came over the system that the library would be closing in a few minutes.

Disappointed, he looked down at the stacks of books around him. There were so many he hadn't gotten to, and he knew, well, he'd have to come back tomorrow. And by then, the librarians would have put all the books back where they belonged, and he'd have to get them all down again. But, for the first time in a while, he was feeling content.

It wasn't like being out on the field, but that was a different type of contentment.

This was different, but it was a good different... A better different.

He could see himself studying here. Could see himself writing his papers without anyone bothering him. Nobody would look at him and sneer, make comments about how he couldn't possibly understand the material. There wouldn't be any whispers about dumb jocks. Most of all, he could see himself spending his free time the way that he wanted. He spread his palm out over the book in his lap, tracing the slightly raised title with his fingertips. Malory's _Le Morte D'Arthur_ wasn't one that he'd read before, but he knew he wanted to finish it.

And so he did.

The next day he was back again, scanning his ID in at the front desk and nearly sprinting down to his corner and his chair. To his astonishment, his piles of books were still sitting around his chair, like they were waiting for him to return. The book about the mythological King Arthur was right in the middle of his armchair. Either the librarians had assumed nobody ever came in here, or they just didn't care. He smiled to himself, plopping down gingerly and setting his bag down on the floor. It wasn't long before he was engrossed in Malory again, settling back onto the more stable right arm.

He was never disturbed.

And so he went back.

Again and again and again.

Day after day, no matter when he got to the library, his chair was always empty and his books were always waiting for him. He read through _Beowulf_  and _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_  after he finished his Arthurian tales, constantly getting lost in his imagination--marveling at the translations and the illustrations found frequently in the texts. The dim light had ceased to bother him at all, and now he found it easy to follow the words as he paged through his books.

His life started to revolve around the library.

He still played his football, of course. Still enjoyed sprinting down the field, dodging defenders and putting the ball in the back of the net. He still loved the game, loved the challenge and the feeling of victory. But now, when he finished, instead of going back to his dorm for the night, he would go back to the library instead. A lot of his friends didn't quite understand, but as long as he still scored the goals--nobody really cared what he did with his free time. He suspected, well, he was pretty sure that they thought he'd maybe met someone at the library. He got a lot of high fives and odd winks whenever he mentioned he was going to study.

It didn't bother him that they thought that.

It wasn't the truth, but it didn't bother him.

The librarians stopped giving him strange looks, but he thinks they believe the same thing. They roll their eyes now, try to watch where he goes. As if they're going to catch him making out against one of the shelves on the main level. He certainly can't be here for the books.

It makes him laugh a little sometimes, when he's down in his chair and surrounded by his books. None of them have shown any urge in kissing him, and that's probably a good thing. Of course, the very fact that he's even thinking about this means he's cracked a little, which isn't quite good. Probably means he needs to get out more, but, as he leans back and gets more comfortable in his chair, he just really doesn't want to. He's just started Spenser's _The Faerie Queene_ , so he has more important things to worry about. Slaying a dragon seems like more work than it's worth, he thinks as he finishes Book 1, wondering if he can somehow work this into one of his upcoming assignments for his Medieval Literature class.

The thing is...

One day he goes down to his spot and finds that his chair... Well, his chair is not alone. That's not to say it's exactly *his* chair--he doesn't own it, of course. It belongs to the library and everything, but still. He's grown used to this corner in this room, and he's grown unbelievably found of that ugly, lumpy chair shaped thing. Alright, he's going to call it his chair.

But his chair is not alone.

There's another chair sitting next to it.

This chair is squashed into his corner too.

They don't match at all. They're not part of a set obviously. His chair is blue and this chair is white. Or was white. It's now sorta cream colored, on its way to tan. The entire thing looks it's been sitting out in the sun for too long. Or would that have made it fade even whiter? He's not quite sure, but he knows that the chair is not it's original color any longer. It's super ugly looking. Like his chair, it's slightly understuffed, though it's the left arm instead of the right. It's also got rips and tears everywhere, and the stuffing is coming out most of them aside from one very prominent hole in the side that's been stitched with black thread.

He stands and stares at it for a minute.

He can't very well go up to the librarian and complain about a chair being added to an underused room in the lower levels of the library.

After a minute of indecision, he sits down on his chair. He can see the other chair out of the corner of his eye and he's not sure he's going to be able to get used to it. It's changed his corner entirely. His piles of books are untouched, however, which makes him wonder how exactly they deposited this monstrosity here without moving them. Sighing, he picks up Spenser again.

But he can't get through it.

The chair is still there, in his corner.

Frustrated, he gets up and stares at it again.

Knowing he looks like a crazy person, he grudgingly approaches the chair. Up close, it's even more ugly. And he's not sure it'll hold his weight since it looks even more precarious than his own armchair. But, he decides that he'll give it a try. Can't hurt, after all.

He sits down. Wiggles a little. Moves his butt around and then pulls his legs up underneath him in his usual position. Leaning back is a bit nerve-racking, but the chair doesn't fall over or collapse and he breathes a sigh of relief. Spenser is still tight in his hand and he opens it without thinking, eyes going to the words and--

He jumps up and immediately returns to his blue chair.

He pats it reassuringly on the arm, half ashamed that he'd even tried out another chair. Naturally, his chair has no reaction, but still, he turns his body away so he can't even see the new chair out of the corner of his eye. His chair is still the comfiest thing he's ever experienced and he leans on the stuffed arm as he relaxes again. He's just thanking his lucky stars that nobody was here to see how idiotic he must have looked when--

"Oh," comes a voice from the end of the aisle.

He looks up in alarm. In all the time he's been coming to the library, *nobody* has ever come in this room. His book snaps shut and he clutches it closer like the guy's gonna rip it out of his hands.

He has no fucking clue how to react.

"I was--," the guy says, taking a step closer. He's backlit by the only light near the wall that works, leaving a little halo around his hair. "Well," he says, clearing his throat. "It sounds dumb, but um, I was looking for my chair."

There's a moment of silence then.

Then the guy continues on. "I realize this sounds completely stupid. But I've been sitting in that chair," he says, pointing at the new chair in the corner, "for a few days now. And, I dunno, I kinda think of it as my chair now?" He clears his throat again and scratches his jaw. "Today I went to go read," he says, holding up a book in his hand, "and it was gone? I'd almost given up, really."

"What are you reading?" Spenser's still in his lap, but that doesn't mean he's not curious about this guy's taste. He still can't see his face, not with the light, so he leans back in his chair and tries not to be obvious about what he's doing.

The guy laughs, looking slightly embarrassed. "Oh, it's _Tristan and Iseult_. Not sure if you know it, but I'm reading it because it kinda goes with some of the readings assigned for my Medieval Lit class, and I thought it would help." He looks down at the binding and shrugs. "I just transferred a few weeks ago, so I need to catch up and this was something the professor recommended." He peers through the dim light and squints. "Is that _The Faerie Queene_?"

There's an announcement over the intercom then that makes them both jump. Apparently, the library is closing early for some maintenance work.

He gets to his feet, leaving his book carefully on top of his blue chair. "Well, that's it for today, I suppose. And yes," he adds quickly. "It is Spenser." He looks ruefully at his books and then grabs his bag. When he looks up, the other guy is still standing there. He thinks there's a smile on his face. "What?" he asks, feeling slightly nervous even though there's no reason he should be.

This guy's new. He doesn't know him. Doesn't have any judgments yet about him.

"Would it be alright," the guys says slowly, like he doesn't want to press too much, "if I sit here tomorrow?" He gestures at the white chair. "It's just," finally he shakes his head. "That' *my* chair, you know?"

It shouldn't make them laugh, but it does.

"Don't worry," he says, leaving Spenser behind and joining the guy as they walk through the doorway. "I know exactly what you mean." He knows that his blue chair doesn't wave goodbye, but it's still a funny feeling to be leaving so early. Then he has to shake his head at the very idea of his chair waving at him. Maybe he really does need to get out.

"So, tomorrow?" the guy asks, interrupting his thoughts, as they start heading up the stairs. It's a little breathless as they jog up the steps. They're joined by a flood of students as everyone starts emerging from the study rooms and heading for the main level. The difference in light is startling and most of them end up blinking rapidly with watering eyes.

He gives the other guy a look. Now that they're up in the bright light, and it's a little easier to see him. He looks laid back, with a messenger bag over one shoulder and his book in his hand. He's got on some black jacket with a white t-shirt peeking out underneath. It looks like a football shirt from a neighboring school. The new guy looks... really good.

He likes what he sees.

"Tomorrow."

**Author's Note:**

> I experimented a bit with form and pov because why not lol...


End file.
